Christmas At Cedarwood Lodge. Rebecca Raisin

you hear that?” I asked, dropping his arm and dashing closer to the window to get a glimpse of them arriving.

      “That, my friend, is the sound of progress. Time to get your overalls on, Clio!” He gave my high heels a pointed look and was rewarded with an eye-roll. “Let’s meet them out front!”

      We flew down the stairs and on to the porch to watch the procession arrive. Cars and trucks turned into the driveway in convoy. Some were loaded with supplies, others were bare except for hard-hatted drivers with determined expressions.

      Anticipation sizzled through me. It was really happening! This beautiful, timeworn lodge was about to be transformed back into its glorious self.

      My old life was behind me. Here – in the town where I grew up, in the abandoned lodge I’d played by as a child – people would fall in love, they’d marry, they’d have families, and then they’d return to Cedarwood and celebrate once more…

Chapter Two

      A few weeks later, ignoring a head throb from the ever-present noise, I gave myself a silent pep talk. You can do this! All you have to do is paint them a charming picture of what will be. I buttoned up my navy-blue blazer, straightened the seam of my crisp linen trousers and slipped on red heels, the ones Micah teased me relentlessly over.

      With the buzz of a drill nearby, I picked up my paperwork and iPad, which had a 3D presentation loaded and ready to play. Eventually I’d have an office in a suite off the lobby, but right now it was still too frenetic with workers for me to concentrate, so in the interim I’d set up a temporary office in the front parlor, a room once used for pre-dinner aperitifs.

      The couple’s car churned up the gravel and my heart rate increased. They’d called the night before and enquired about hiring the ballroom for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. It had taken all of my might to keep my voice level and act like I’d hired out the ballroom a hundred times already. But it boded well, having interest in Cedarwood at this early stage.

      I peeked out of the newly replaced window and watched Edgar help his wife Imelda into a wheelchair. Damn it! There were no ramps in place. I made a mental note to check we had mobility aids on the list. Cedarwood had to be accessible to everyone.

      With a broad smile in place, I hurried outside to greet them.

      “Welcome to Cedarwood!” I said, too brightly, my nerves jangling to the surface. I was half-jogging toward them, mentally assessing the area for a plank of wood, or something to use as a ramp… when the heel of my stiletto got caught in a hole in the deck. With a calm smile that belied the drumming of my heart, I attempted to wrench my heel out, trying to appear casual, but it wouldn’t budge. Damn it! With one last heave, the heel came free but momentum sent me flying forward with a screech. Oh, God! I flew precariously into the air, taking great leaps to avoid a tray of paint and a scattering of drill bits. Please, I silently willed the universe, don’t let me upend the paint all over her! With a hop, skip, and a jump to avoid everything, I ended up on my knees by the woman’s lap, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

      Note to self: make sure walkways are cleared at all times.

      Sweat broke out on my forehead despite the chilly autumn day. Red-faced and righting myself, I held out a hand and said breezily, “I’m Clio. And as you can see, I’ve been falling over myself to meet you.” Kill me. Thank God I hadn’t taken her out. I could already imagine the story getting Chinese-whispered around town: Did you hear Clio Winters tried to murder her first client, and it was little old Imelda no less!

      Imelda chuckled and shook my hand. “Aren’t you as pretty as a picture? I hope you didn’t ruin those heels. Do you think they come in my size? My life flashed before my eyes but all I could think was, I need a pair of those dancing shoes for the party…” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

      Admonishing myself silently for being a klutz, I dared a quick peek at my trousers; they had somehow remained intact – however, from the pain radiating upwards, my knees hadn’t fared as well. “I’m sure they’d have your size and I think the leopard-print ones would suit you…”

      She cocked her head as if contemplating. “I might just have to find some for the party. What do you say, Edgar?” She craned her neck and smiled benignly at her husband.

      “They most certainly look like dancing shoes… Could be a new type of workboot, but what would I know?” He glanced at the hole in the deck and then my heels, and raised his eyes to the heavens. I tried to hide a smile and remain professional, but a giggle escaped. It couldn’t be helped – I liked them both instantly.

      I stepped forward and shook Edgar’s hand. The speech I’d prepared had flown straight out of my head as I’d toppled into Imelda’s personal space, but I sensed my spiel would have been too formal, too stuffy for these people. Game face on, I cleared my throat and tried to regroup.

      Right. Explain yourself, and don’t fall over! “As you can see, Cedarwood is getting a bit of a makeover. It’s a work site at the moment, but soon…”

      “It’s just as gorgeous as ever,” Imelda said, her eyes shining. “Can we take a look through?”

      “It’s a little noisy what with the…”

      “Noise schmoise,” she said, waving me away. “We don’t mind that, do we Edgar?”

      I gulped. What if something fell on them, or Edgar tripped and broke a leg? I’d planned on showing them the ballroom from the adjoining outdoor deck and showing my presentation. Not opening myself up for a health and safety lawsuit on the first day.

      “We’re as tough as old boots, even if we look a little fragile. Don’t you worry about us,” Imelda said.

      If we walked slowly, and carefully, surely it would be OK for a few minutes? Though I’d managed to fall over already…

      “So sorry that we’re not fully equipped at the moment. Let me help you lift the chair,” I said, praying I didn’t get a finger caught in the wheel spokes and drop her, or something equally idiotic.

      “Help with the chair would be mighty kind,” Edgar said, moving to one side while I took the other. We hefted the surprisingly light Imelda up.

      With my back holding open the oak door, Edgar wheeled Imelda into the lobby, the scent of wet paint heavy in the air. Drop sheets were scattered across the floor to catch spills and the sounds of work echoed around the lodge.

      “It might look like a big mess at the moment, but trust me, there’s a method to the madness. We have a strict schedule in place.” It was hard to envisage what the lodge would look like with groups of laborers in clusters, drilling, hammering, filing, and edging. Tools were scattered, buckets were littered here and there. Bags of rubbish sat awaiting removal. The couple followed my noisy tread, the wood underfoot making a weird kind of song depending on where we stepped. Squeak, ping, pop, ahh.

      Imelda shook her head as if she was mesmerized. “I’m sure you’ve got a handle on it all.” We continued through the expanse of the lobby with its thick American oak pillars, and dusty chandeliers swaying in the breeze, their crystals clinking gently like a song, prisms of colored light dancing on the walls. The mantle of the stone fireplace was missing and it needed a little love, but a fire crackled in the grate, adding to the ambience.

      Firelight flickered across the room. Even in its disorderly state the lodge radiated a type of warmth, a feeling of relaxation and expectation of what might be…

      “As you can see, I’m trying to keep as much of it original as I can.” I wanted the lodge to keep its old-world charm. “The overall look will remain as it was all those years ago.”

      “That’s music to my ears,” Imelda said, beaming. “We worried the lodge might’ve been purchased by a huge consortium and turned into some modern monolith. I’m so glad that’s not the case.”